A Mother's Plight
by Blooregard Q. Kazoo
Summary: When Azulan had finished his tea and when the children went off to play in the courtyard, Ursa went to sit beneath a large willow in the gardens, bringing her cross stitching to busy her shaking fingers, and waited for darkness to descend the Nation.


[This tries to explain Azulan's death and Ursa's disappearance.] Okay, okay… I know this theory has been floating around forums and whatnot, but I came up with it on my own, right after watching the episode. This particular scenario made the most sense to me, and I really couldn't see anyone else being the cause of Azulan's (coincidently convenient) demise. P.S. - this is an updated version. And I've noticed that some people have placed the story under "story alert." It's a one-shot, so there will be no other chapters. I may (or may not?) write a sequel. We'll see. I have a BUNCH of other projects to write first.

**A MOTHER'S PLIGHT**

**a**

**One-Shot**

**by**

**Blooregard Q Kazoo**

_Present Day…_

The bag was heavy when she finished packing. Food, clothing, a knife, a few cooking utensils – all the necessities of life condensed and shoved into one minute space. With a heavy swinging motion she pulled the bag onto her shoulders, wincing slightly as the straps applied pressure to her bony frame. Physical labor was left to beasts of burden, not the fair-skinned Ursa. She would have to stop multiple times if she didn't lighten her load.

She placed the bag down, noticing how her bed creaked under the visible weight – it was stuffed until the straps were barely secured and she could see the sleeve of a shirt poking out from under the flap. She was scared to leave something behind – what if she walked far, far away before realizing she needed something she didn't have? After careful consideration, she opted to bring one bowl instead of four, one cup instead of three, only a small pot – not the pan – and fewer clothes. No jewelry. She did not give up any food, however.

She sighed after placing the bag on her shoulders again. It was much lighter, but now it felt like she was carrying too little. Her view on life's _bare necessities_ was skewed after many years of marriage to the Fire Lord's second son.

She opened the door slowly. A column of light from a paper lantern cut her down the middle. The hallway was void. Something odd and eerie and seemingly out of place when she was used to such activity moving up and down that very space. She had never ventured out of her room at such an early hour before. It must have been… three in the morning? A member of the royal family sleeps at such an hour. She hesitated, placing a shaking hand on the door frame. Her heart pounded with nervous warmth that spread to her lungs and made it hard to breath. She was about to make the first stop of many, but if she found it so hard to leave her room, how could she possibly leave the palace, let alone the nation itself?

She breathed in heavily and held the air for a moment. She imagined the fear and the nerves that made her fingers shake trapped within her lungs… she breathed out, exorcising her body of anything that would hold her back. The door was closed quietly behind her as she planted both feet firmly on the red carpet outside her door.

Each step down the corridor was as mechanical as the one before it. One foot in front of the other, bend the knee, and for a brief moment all the body weight was distributed to a heel, then a flat foot. No thoughts of turning back, just the end of the hallway where a winding staircase would take her to the first level of the building. She passed gilded doors, and strangely felt no remorse when she passed a large, golden dragon intricately stretched over red-painted oak. She had given Azula all the nurturing capable of any mother, all the encouragement she could muster, and every bit of love that she contained.

She did not feel any guilt at leaving her husband, either. Her warm blood became hot with anger when her peripheral vision caught the outline of an elephant-rhino. It seemed fitting that such a beast would grace his door. Strong with small minds that only focused on eating, sleeping, and defending their territory.

She stopped walking when she reached the falcon that looked as if it would spring to life and fly from its perch at any moment.

_One Day Earlier…_

"Iroh is no longer father's _perfect_ heir."

"Please don't talk like that, dear, he's your brother."

"And that should stop me from looking after the Nation's best interests? He's not fit to be Fire Lord. He's emotionally unstable."

_Is it the Nation's best interests you're looking after, or is it your own_. That was what she wanted to say, but she could not speak against him. She had power over servants and staff, but political matters were beyond her reach. So she listened, and paid attention to what her husband said. She focused on the tone, sensing the anger in his voice when he used phrases such as "But _he? _He has no heir now, no one to take his place. Why should the Fire Lord be reduced to an old man with no children, when others have both a son and a daughter?" _There_ it was. He was not spouting a random example; he was specifically alluding to himself.

Ozai thought his wife as simple-minded, a mere beauty to have by his side and birth his children. Despite Ozai's assumptions, Ursa was beginning to unravel his plans.

He spoke plainly. He mentioned that other's had children when Iroh did not. He never failed to further prod at Iroh's supposed mental condition. Loosing a child, Ozai had screamed, had stricken the man with a grief so deep it destroyed his heart and left him a withered, empty man. Iroh _was_ stricken with grief – but it would pass. The oldest brother had lost his wife a few years prior to fever, and his son was lost in battle. He was alone – a general who led thousands of men, but despite this large quantity of soldiers, found himself solitary. He had no son; he had no wife; he had _nothing_.

But Iroh knew that he would have to lead the Fire Nation one day, and he would place these personal matters aside for the good of the Nation. Ozai, however, intent on bending the truth, wanted to make it seem as though Iroh would never be consoled, and that someone else would have to take his place as the Fire Lord.

She found herself, later that morning, seated before the Fire Lord, and she knew why. She watched her daughter move with such fluency through the motions of her exercise, the transition between each kick and punch flawless. Her son was not told of the demonstration, and she hoped he would remain seated. If he was not told, he would have no time to practice, and wouldn't be ready. If he only remained seated he would be alright. But her son was more intuitive than she had thought. He caught on quickly that Azula was his father's favorite child, and felt a need to constantly prove himself to the man who thought so little of him.

He stood and asked if he, too, might demonstrate what he had been taught by the Fire Bending Master. She noticed, quickly, that her husband's face, once graced with an unusual smile, now frowned. These smiles he reserved for his daughter lately, after watching how effortlessly she learned her exercises and how impressive her fighting skills became. After his below-par performance, the frown on Ozai's face must have broken Zuko's heart. Azulan was not pleased, either, and ushered everyone out of the room.

She stared at the two guards who stood on either side of the massive door. The handle alone - a large, golden loop - was as big around as her head.

"Can you listen in?" She asked. The two guards looked at each other and then back at Ozai's wife, unsure of how to answer her question. Was it a trap? Was she serious? Ursa took a small purse from the inside of her sleeve and tossed it to one of the guards. His hand dropped a little when he caught it, evidence of how heavy the pouch was. He held it for a few moments to mentally establish a weight.

"Yes, actually, we can."

"Good," she answered.

Ursa returned to the throne room one hour later, after her husband entered their bedchamber. She did not wish to pry at her husband for information, for his once fiery countenance was broken by a sheen of sweat, and darting eyes. He appeared to be _nervous_, not angry. His father was not keen on the idea of changing birthrights; his love of tradition was too strong, but something other than a simple "no" must have uttered from the Fire Lord's mouth to make her husband carry such a visibly disturbed image.

"Lord Azulan was very upset at Ozai's request. He felt it was disrespectful to deny the oldest son his birthright, especially after the loss of _his_ only son," the guard whispered.

"But my husband continued to argue, didn't he?"

"Yes, he listed two major reasons - he said that he still had a son, as well as a daughter, and that his own mentality could not be taken into question."

"Which made Lord Azulan _mad_, didn't it?"

"Yes, he said Ozai had no idea what it was like to loose a child. Lord Azulan was silent for a moment, then said it would be _educational _if he were to experience what Iroh has."

"What do you mean?"

* * * *

She wore a summer gown the next day; light and airy but still embroidered with golden threads that would catch the sunlight just right. Her hair was braided, glossy and catching light just as equally.

The cook's wife was round and voluptuous, fitting her husband's profession exactly. She was on her hands and knees, spade stabbing the gray earth to penetrate and turn the soil so moist, dark clumps took its place. Her hands were filthy and when she saw Ursa, she rose to her feet out of respect and moved a sweaty curl from out of her eyes. The movement left a dark streak from eyebrow to her ear.

"I was going to pick wildflowers today," Ursa mentioned in a casual conversation starter, looking at her nails absent-mindedly, "and I was wondering if there was a particular flower that would compliment my dinner table nicely."

The woman's circular, ample face morphed into creases of folded skin when she smiled, "Why yes, there is one flower that would go nicely with the red hues of your dining room. It's a deep purple, with a bright red center, you can't miss it. It's called a dragon-blossom."

"Hmm. Is there any flower I should look out for? Anything poisonous?"

The woman's smiles faded to a line. Such an odd question, really. But perhaps Ursa was only being careful. They were wild flowers, after all. And _anything_ can grow in an unkempt space. The last thing Ursa would want is to bring home something that could cause a rash.

"Now that I think of it, there is one flower. The anthers carry a pollen that can cause some redness and itching. If swallowed, however, it may cause an allergic reaction. The wind pipes will swell and make breathing impossible. It's black in color. Very small. It grows in large bunches, akin to forget-me-nots."

"Thank you."

* * * *

She made sure to pick some of the dragon blossoms first, so that, if she could not find the poisonous flower, her alibi would have some truth behind it. She arranged the purple flowers in a decorative pattern - within a black vase - and placed them in the center of the table. From the inside pocket of her dress, she pulled out the poisonous flowers and looked at them. The candlelight showed an almost furry texture, like that of velvet. The petals were soft and thin, and when she ran her fingers over them, they crumbled, leaving black residue on the pads of her thumb and forefinger. She did not worry, however, because the pollen was all she needed.

She entered the kitchen quietly, head turning in all directions to see if the cook was about. He was not; however, she entered cautiously, ready to move if the door should suddenly swing open. She noticed a gilded tray, five teacups placed upward in a circular pattern, the center empty and awaiting the teapot that would fill the space.

Four of the teacups were from the same set - but the remaining cup was larger and much more intricate; the handle was the serpentine body of a dragon. She lifted the teacup and placed the small, black flowers within, pollen-side down. She applied pressure to the flowers, and the glaze that covered the porcelain allowed the flowers to move about with ease. She lifted the small flowers and brought them close to her eyes - the pollen had been wiped off.

Tea time usually ran for an extended period. Lord Azulan was quite fond of tea, and often made suggestions to the cook as to what teas he should buy at the local market, or asked that the cook buy something new, and surprise the Fire Lord with exotic and delicious flavors and aromas. Azulan always sipped his tea slowly, enjoying his steaming cup as if it were a glass of wine. No one ever spent time wondering where Iroh's similar love originated. When the cook brought home a new bag of tea, he even enjoyed sifting his fingers through it, bringing the dried herbs and leaves to his nostrils and inhaling deeply, then allowing the small pieces to fall back into the bag - much like one sifts theirs fingers through white sand at the beach.

The family gathered on the large, over-stuffed couches and waited for the cook to bring out a tray of tea and cakes. Ursa sat quietly, hands folded on her lap and eyes downcast, as she had always done during tea. Her husband and her father-in-law spoke of politics and their conversations were riddled with jargon that she was quite familiar with, but never gave her male companions any notion that she could follow the arguments with ease.

The tea was brought from the kitchen on the gilded tray. Small porcelain plates held bit-sized cakes of various flavors for the children, and in the center was the large tea-pot. Azulan smiled when his nostrils inhaled a spicy aroma new to him.

"It smells delicious," Azulan said.

When Azulan had finished his tea and when the children went off to play in the courtyard, Ursa went to sit beneath a large willow in the gardens, bringing her cross stitching to busy her shaking fingers, and waited for darkness to descend the Nation.

_Present Day…_

When she had descended the last flight of stairs and was on the first floor, she made her way to the kitchen, where a side exit would lead her to the garden, where the large wall bordering the palace was slightly broken. It took her an entire day to find that hole. She looked behind every tree and every patch of flowers, and every shrub, hoping to find an area weakened by the many roots that extended underneath the wall. She found one such area behind a large apple tree. The roots had dug beneath the wall, but one had risen higher than the others and agitated the stone. An impressive crack zigzagged upward. She had opened the gardener's tool shed earlier that evening and found a crow-bar. He used it to open the large wooden crates of imported flowers and soil the conquered earth-kingdom cities sent as tribute.

She shoved the crow bar in the crack and pulled and pushed the piece of metal until the stone, once hard and impenetrable, now weathered and weak, crumbled until a gaping hole gave her eyes access to the scenery outside the palace walls.

She had never been in the garden at night. Everything had a light tone of blue to it, as if someone held a tinted piece of glass over the land and the moonlight shone through and mixed with the color. She tip-toed over the path, mindful of the pebbles and dirt that crunched beneath her shoes, trying her hardest to keep the noise muffled by treading carefully. She made her way to the tree, and slipped behind it. The hole was just large enough. She shoved her bag through first, and, getting on hands and knees, slowly made her way past the stone.

The air seemed crisp and cool - lighter, even, as if the very presence of her husband and father-in-law, and their stifling existence, had somehow brought a layer of smog around the palace. She turned to face the wall and its damaged exterior, placing a small, pale hand on the fading and chipped paint. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She turned away from the palace once more, and over the tree line she could make out the chimney of a Fire Nation ship. If it had not been moving with the waves, she would not have recognized it. She walked a little further from the wall, down the sloping ground, until she came upon a path that would lead her to the docks.

* * * *

She found a vacant spot by the side rail. She wanted to watch the shore as it shrank and disappeared, becoming a spot in the distance before it vanished completely like a dream. She watched the unmoving land for a while, trying to root it in her memory, eyeing all the slopes in the hills and the different colors of the leaves on the tree - the way they changed from their usual green to the hues of warm colors. She liked the yellow ones the best. She always had, and never knew why…

The first curving bit of sun peaked behind the trees, as if the forest was the source of light, and the sun slept in a bed of its leaves. A horn sounded as a bit of color began to melt the once solid sky. It was sunrise, time for the ship to leave the harbor.

It wouldn't be very long before they realized what she had done. They would find the body first, sometime before breakfast when a servant would go and wake him. The servant would have a hard time, and after shaking the lifeless form, would become anxious. After taking into consideration the age of the man occupying the bed, the servant would lift shaking fingers toward the loose, leathery skin of the neck. No pulse. Hoping a mistake was made, a tentative palm would be placed above the nose and mouth. No breath.

THE END

_So, to break it down. Azulan, as I read the episode, was going to have Zuko killed. That's why Ursa disappeared - she had to kill Azulan before he could kill her son. Hence the quote, "Everything I've done, I've done to protect you"._


End file.
